


What Two Pence Are Really Worth

by ruethereal



Series: Of Silly Magic Tricks, Unicorns, and Single Fatherhood [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruethereal/pseuds/ruethereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels comical and slow-motion, but there's no fighting destiny--especially when it comes to silly magic tricks, unicorns, and single fatherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Two Pence Are Really Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/5454.html?thread=2522446#t2522446) at Kink Me, Merlin! #5 ~~please ignore the fact that it's a ten-month old prompt~~ :D

“_No_, Morgana, damn it,” Arthur hisses into the mobile he’s holding to his jaw with one hand, the other hand carding through his already on-end hair.  “You fucking told me you’d be there.  Stop being a selfish bitch.”

“Oy, is that any way to—?”

“Are you fucking mental!  It doesn’t matter that he’s ‘only nine;’ what_ matters_ is that his own Godforsaken _mother_ is there when—What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!”

Arthur swings around madly, upset that his hag of an ex-wife is trying to wriggle out of another parent-teacher conference, that the only means of communicating his fury is via a shoddy mobile service, that his tirade was interrupted by his mobile suddenly disappearing from his hand, and that he’s wearing shoes without socks because he forgot to launder the whites again.  He finds said stolen mobile against an unknown man’s face, said unknown man murmuring presumably to said hag ex-wife still on the line.  Arthur is about to resume the unleashing of his rage, though this time directing it at the stranger, but then his eyes settle on the child standing at the stranger’s hip.

Mordred.

It feels comical and slow-motion, but his gaze pans out to take in the image fully: his darling son in his favorite Nick Cave &amp; The Bad Seeds t-shirt (shrunken in the dryer multiple times just so it would fit), switching his weight from one maroon Converse-shoed foot to the other, looking more bored than bothered, his left hand folded loosely in the right hand of a twenty-something man, all long and lean lines, wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt (that also looks as if it’s been shrunk purposefully) and Converses so careworn the black has faded and the white has dinged to grey.  Arthur takes in the matching mops of raven hair, the matching eyes as clear and deep as Icelandic waters, the matching skin so pale it’s translucent, and the matching wardrobes.

“—wonderful.  He’ll be delighted—”

This is far too surreal, and Arthur’s been stunned into slack-jawed, ogle-eyed, slump-shouldered silence.

Mordred has always resembled Morgana.  It takes longer to realize Mordred has Arthur’s blue eyes and not Morgana’s green, or that Mordred’s jaw already hints at the regality that is Arthur’s.  Of course, Arthur could never begrudge his own son for looking like his mother; he quite possibly loves him all the more for it.  But looking at Mordred beside this man, Arthur’s struck with a strange feeling of disconnect.  They look like brothers with a wide age gap.  Yet it wouldn’t take that far a stretch of the mind to believe they are, in fact, the father and son.

“—to let Arthur know.  No, not at all, thank _you_.”

With that, the stranger ends the call and offers the mobile.

“Morgana will be there tomorrow afternoon.  A few minutes late, perhaps—she’s making real progress with the case—but there, which is what matters, yeah?”

Arthur’s eyes skitter from the mobile, to the man smiling crookedly, to Mordred staring curiously at him.

“Er.”

Arthur watches mindlessly as Mordred slips his hand from the stranger’s, takes the proffered mobile, and crosses to his own side.  Arthur dimly registers Mordred tippy-toeing to reach for the inner pocket of his jacket to deposit the mobile, then as Mordred shakes his arm by his sleeve.

“_Dad_, say ‘thank you’ to Emmy.  Did you hear?  Mum’s coming tomorrow.”

Arthur’s mind finally stutters back into place—

“Shit, er, yeah.  Thanks, I guess.  Uh, Emmy, was it?”

The man scratches the spot below his ear, crooked and toothy smile still in place.  “Merlin, actually,” he lilts, holding out his hand.  “The kids have taken to calling me ‘Emmy,’ though.”

“Arthur, but you already know that, it seems,” Arthur says, not entirely uncomfortable, and clasps the long-fingered hand briefly.

When he withdraws, though, there’s a fifty-pence piece stuck to his palm.  He blinks down at it before raising his eyebrows at Merlin.

“Are you—paying me—for something?”

Mordred and Merlin both burst into a fit of giggles.

“No, Dad!” Mordred wheezes.  “Emmy’s doing _magic_.”

“Oh, of course,” Arthur mumbles, rolling the coin between his fingers distractedly.  “So, is that what you meant by ‘the kids’?  You do, er, magic tricks.  In the park.  For children.”

Merlin cocks his head and his grin widens as he explains, “It only sounds weird when you put it like that.  I have a long break after school but before work, and it’s a pain to go home.  So, I come here.  Sometimes I read, sometimes I write, sometimes—”

“You do impromptu illusionary acts for unsupervised children?”

Merlin looks genuinely stricken for the span of two seconds before Arthur shows mercy and gives a single shout of laughter.  He tousles Mordred’s hair, using the action to nestle the boy to his side.

“_Dad_—”

“Only joking, Merlin.  But, would you object to coffee?”

Merlin’s eyes widen, darting from Mordred’s face to Arthur’s.

“Excuse me?”

Arthur shrugs, saying, “You kept Mordred entertained while I was failing to get my psycho ex-wife to attend a parent-teacher conference for once, which you did for me anyway.  Coffee, as a ‘thank you,’ seems fitting.”

Arthur feels Mordred nod pleadingly in his hand, sees Merlin narrow his eyes to gauge the boy’s insistence.  Mordred positively squirms at Arthur’s side and ducks away from Arthur’s hold, his small, warm hand jumping into Arthur’s and tugging in anticipation.  And he doesn’t know why, but Arthur sighs in relief at the other man’s affirmative:

“Sure.  What the hell?  I know a place.”

 

Which is how Arthur and Merlin, two grown men, end up walking through a park on either side of Mordred, the boy swinging restlessly from each man’s arm.  Merlin seems perfectly relaxed, rambling about his dreams of becoming a pediatrician by day and a digital artist by night.  Arthur can vividly imagine what they must look like to passersby, a six-legged race contestant at best, a homosexual family at worst—well, maybe that isn’t the ‘worst’ option, but it’s definitely the strangest.  Nevertheless, he feels oddly contented, while at the same time bemused by the feeling.

Mordred’s resumed laughter draws Arthur back from his thoughts, and he smiles privately.  It’s been a while since Mordred has laughed so freely, what with Arthur and Morgana’s constant over-the-phone bickering.  With this realization, Arthur feels his contentment shrivel into guilt—a complete stranger is making _his son_ act like a child again, while neither he nor Morgana can stop cursing into their mobiles long enough to even try.  He peers down at Mordred, studying him closely, the boy in the middle of a story completely warbled by occasional giggles.

“—teases me about my name ‘cause—‘cause it sounds like More Dread!  And, and, he says Dad will get all grey like him soon ‘cause Dad’s such a _young sire_ but he was already _old_ when Dad was born, and—_and_ Mum was the first serving of Dread!  Sir Papa’s always telling Dad he _told him so_.”

By then, Mordred is all snorts and hiccups, and Arthur can only watch fondly.

“I don’t think you’re dreadful at all,” Merlin muses.

“You, too!”

The duo share another round of unrestrained laughter.

“Why do you call your grandfather ‘Sir Papa’?”

Mordred contains himself long enough to explain, “Sir Papa says he’s a king, but Dad says it’s more like he’s a royal pain.”

And this time, Arthur joins them.

They walk, still hand-in-hand, along the uncrowded, Tuesday afternoon streets until Merlin pulls Mordred, who in turn pulls Arthur, into a small, cozy café, a small bell tinkling to announce their entrance.  The walls are painted a soft green like pistachios to contrast the mochas and toffees of the leather seats and mismatched antique tables.  The air is light and warm, tinged with cinnamon and brown sugar and freshly ground coffee beans.  It wasn’t so long ago that Arthur would wake to find their flat smelling the same way, sometimes with the added smells of maple syrup and sweet cream-drowned toast burning in the oven (Morgana’s specialty) or of blueberry scones (Mordred’s specialty, with the help of Morgana, of course).  A yank on his hand yanks Arthur from his reminiscing, and he finds Mordred beaming up at him, and he knows: Mordred remembers, too.

“Have a seat,” Merlin says, visibly pleased by the boy’s reaction.  “I’ll get the drinks.”

“What?  Merlin, I thought we’d agreed that I would be treating you to coffee.”

Merlin only laughs.

“And they say chivalry is dead.  It’s no problem, really.  Go on.”

His eyes are too blue and too bright, but Arthur won’t be swayed.  That is, until Mordred offers his two pence:

“Yeah, Dad, stop trying to be chivalrous.”

Arthur looks down at his son, unsure if he should feel scandalized, betrayed, or just downright amused.  He opts for all three, putting on a hurt expression, then prodding Mordred’s cheek.

“Two against one, huh?” he says with mock-solemnity.  “Even the noblest of knights would concede defeat against the two of you, I suppose.”

Like it’s the most natural thing, all three of them laugh once more.  Then Merlin places one hand between Mordred’s shoulder blades and the other on the small of Arthur’s back, coaxing them gently.  Mordred doesn’t need telling twice, and he promptly drags Arthur to the window-side corner table.

It’s only a few minutes before Merlin meets them at the table with two mugs and a glass of water, taking the empty seat between the father and son.

“Is that an _apron_?” Arthur asks, plucking at what is _undeniably_ an apron, though he’s possibly more curious about the color—pastel blue, like ‘It’s a Boy!’ balloons or the sky the moment the sun’s fully risen.  “You never said this is where—”

“Is that a cat?” Mordred squeals, jabbing the large pink kitten on Merlin’s chest.

“Yes and yes,” Merlin chuckles, placing the drinks in front of their respective owners.  “And I didn’t mention it because I thought it would be a funny surprise.  So, this,” he indicates Arthur’s mug, “is a hazelnut latte for the knight in shining armor.  And this,” Mordred’s, “is a white hot chocolate for the prince.”

“Hang on!” Arthur protests.  “Why am I only a knight?  Obviously, _I_ should be the prince.  My father’s the king.  _And_ I’m quite dashing.”

Mordred and Merlin exchange significant looks, but remain silent.

“Hey, now,” he pouts.  “This is mutiny—”

“So who is Emmy?” Mordred asks eagerly.

“A _manservant_—”

“—the court sorcerer.”

While Mordred giggles madly into his hot cocoa, the two men argue without heat:

“I would _not_ be a servant.”

“You’re wearing an apron, Merlin.”

“As a disguise, of course.  I’m _really_ a powerful councilor wizard.”

“From what I’ve seen of your ‘powerful’ magic, no king or prince would let you in their court.”

“Which is why you aren’t allowed to be king _or_ prince, Arthur.  And you haven’t seen my magic at its best.”

Arthur places his mug back onto the tabletop, sweeping a hand through the air invitingly.

“Well then, indulge me.”

Merlin narrows his eyes in challenge, but the dimple at the left corner of his mouth betrays his amusement.  So he drains his glass and turns it upside-down, then gathers his apron from beneath the table.  He covers the overturned glass with the baby-blue fabric, pulls everything toward him, then smacks the veiled glass.  Except the glass is no longer there, and the apron collapses in on itself so it lies flat on the table.

Mordred mewls his delight, “See, Dad!  It’s Emmy’s destiny to be my court sorcerer!”

Merlin nods in all seriousness, though there’s no mistaking the twisting of his mouth as he resists a grin while saying, “The prince’s word is law unto the land.”

“Yes, all right,” Arthur sighs dramatically.  “There’s no fighting destiny.”

Merlin’s and Mordred’s smiles together make Arthur feel like he’s won—even though he’s lost—even though there had been no contest, challenge or game to begin with.  Perhaps it is this sweeping warmth that compels Arthur and Mordred to mutually and silently agree that they weren’t leaving—even after Merlin left the table to actually work (the water glass retrieved from his lap and hidden against his forearm)—even after their drinks had gone.

 

In the hour he spends with Mordred in the coffee shop, Arthur feels as if he’s getting reacquainted with his son.  Doing the daily crossword together, he discovers that Mordred has developed a passion for the medieval and the mythical, constantly trying to force incorrect, albeit somehow fitting, words into the puzzle, the most notable being:

“What’s an eight-letter word for a supersonic vehicle?”

“Unicorn.”

“Mordred, that’s seven letters.”

“Then add an ‘s,’ Dad.”

“I’m going with ‘Concorde,’ but thanks, Mordred.”

They also discuss Mordred’s discomfort from needing to transfer to a primary school in a district accessible by both Arthur and Morgana. Except Mordred insists he is _not_ bothered by it, but in fact manipulating the situation—as much as a child could, anyway.

“The closer I am to Mum, the more I’ll be able to see the both of you.  If I stayed closer to where we live without Mum, it would be easier for her to make excuses.  Then you two would never let up on the fighting.”

“Mordred.”

“Sir Papa says it’s unresolved sexual tension and you just need to shag it out.”

“_Mordred_—”

“But if you wanna know what I think, it’d be nice for you to two to stop bickering and go back to sharing me properly.  You’re falling behind on giving me gifts, after all.”

By the end of the hour, Arthur has taken inventory on his life: a divorcee at thirty-one with an authoritarian ex-wife, an executive position beneath his father guaranteed until retirement or his mid-life crisis, a three-bedroom and one and a half-bath flat full of video games and dirty laundry, and a nine-year-old son who makes him feel worthless yet his life worthwhile.

Arthur brushes Mordred’s jaw with the back of his hand, smiling gently and hoping he looks as happy as he feels.  Mordred yawns, then returns the gesture, patting Arthur’s cheek with the whole of his small, warm palm, his usually sharp, clear eyes for once bleary with the need for sleep and vulnerable in his contentment.  Like a child’s.

“Let’s go home.”

Mordred half-nods before sitting up and shaking his head jerkily.

“No!  Emmy’s still here!”

Arthur chuckles, scooting his chair back and standing.  “Don’t be silly.  Emmy—erm—I mean, _Merlin_ is working.  We can’t loiter here forever—”

“I’d be flattered, actually.”

Arthur pivots and finds Merlin at his shoulder, no longer wearing his kitten-adorned, baby-blue apron.

“Gwen said it’s slow enough she can carry on for the rest of the shift herself,” he says with a shrug and a grin.  “That, and she’s convinced Mordred’s my long-lost offspring.”

Mordred leaps up from his chair, then, and latches onto Merlin’s arm with a triumphant laugh.

“_See, Dad_!  I’ve adopted Emmy, he has to come home with us.”

Thoroughly amused, Merlin asks, “So, where’s home?”

Arthur is thrown for a moment, but catches Merlin’s wink and realizes the younger man is simply playing along.  So he nods.

“Not far.”

 

Which is how, _once again_, the trio hits the streets that are now even emptier but doused in the rich oranges and purples of sundown, and this time with Merlin in the middle.  Mordred chatters incessantly about the neighborhood stray cat and his grandfather’s obsession with historically accurate sword restorations.  Several minutes later and halfway home, however, the boy becomes increasingly quiet, and Arthur notices that the dark-haired pair have slowed.  He turns to them, concerned, and finds Mordred slumped against Merlin’s arm.

“Christ, he’s knackered, isn’t he?” Merlin muses.

Arthur is about to reach for Mordred, when Merlin turns his back to the boy and squats.  He pats his shoulders in offering.

“Up you get, Sire.”

Mordred clambers onto Merlin’s back, locks his chin over one of Merlin’s shoulders, and links his hands around Merlin’s neck.  Mordred’s newfound friend cups his hands at the back of either of the boy’s knees then stands, his grin impossibly wide.

“Lead on, good sir.”

He doesn’t know why, but Arthur obeys and Merlin easily falls in-step.

“Earlier, he said you take him out to the park when you need to yell into the phone,” Merlin says, his tone neutral.  “Says he thinks you like to keep the arguing out of the home.  Was there a lot of it before the divorce?”

He doesn’t know why, _but_ Arthur feels neither insulted nor encroached upon.

“None at all,” he answers, sounding just as calm.  “Morgana was too busy sending people to prison to argue with me at home, really.”

“He adores you both,” is the response, warm and assuring.  “Mordred does.”

Arthur shoves his hands deep in his trouser pockets, briefly glancing at his son, pleasantly dozing on Merlin’s back.

“Hard to believe, huh?”

Arthur almost gasps when Merlin faces him, the smile on the pale, young man’s face saddened and honest.  Yet, somehow, it softens his features, makes him appear ethereal.

“I never knew my father,” he murmurs.  “But I’d say you’re doing a fine job of it, Arthur.”

Arthur feels his heart swell.  He doesn’t know why, nor does he care.  Had meeting Merlin been happy chance or destiny after all?  He blinks, realizing they’ve reached their stoop.

“Oh, here we are,” he announces dumbly.  “Hope we haven’t dragged you too far out of your way.”

“Not at all,” Merlin laughs, peering up at the building.  “Funnily, I’m only just a bit farther up.”

Figuring it’s the right time to do so, Arthur reaches for Mordred, lifting the boy by his underarms.  He comes away easily, obviously too tired to struggle, and, with Merlin’s help, Arthur arranges the child so they’re chest-to-chest.  Arthur feels Mordred instinctively wrap his tiny arms around Arthur’s shoulders and his legs around his waist, feels Mordred bury his face in his neck with a snuffled snore.  Merlin’s smile is absolutely heartwarming, all crinkled eyes and a lone dimple, and Arthur can do nothing but return it gratefully.

“Well,” he starts, unsure of what’s proper of him to say.  “Thank you.  Merlin.”

The brunette shakes his head slightly.

“It was nothing really,” he says, and Arthur believes him.  “Well, you know where to find me.  G’night.”

Merlin throws him a playful salute before continuing along the sidewalk.

 

Once inside, Arthur decides not to fuss over Mordred, tucking him into bed after only removing his shoes and socks (Arthur knows he doesn’t brush his teeth every night anyway).  In his own bedroom, Arthur tiredly toes off his shoes and pads to the bathroom.  There, he stares into his reflection in the large, lit mirror.  He’s still blonde (_no greys yet_, he sighs inwardly), still blue-eyed, still _mostly_ fit.  Still thirty-one. Then, without thinking, he sticks a hand in his pocket, and extracts what he doesn’t remember being there on the way home: a fifty-pence coin.

Arthur feels himself smile, but he doesn’t look up to see—just places the piece on the vanity, and turns off the light.

**Author's Note:**

> 9-year-old Mordred is my new favorite thing in the world. &lt;3 *considers a barista!Merlin + daddy!Arthur series*


End file.
